II
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this spot of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand,
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair,
As he sees them stand saluting there
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet,
A delicate sound of bugle notes
That softly say:
Farewell—
Farewell—
(Taps sounding in distance.)